


a long wish to be elsewhere

by laratoncita



Category: The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: F/M, Female Friendship, Implied Sexual Content, Period Typical Attitudes, Teen Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28200687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laratoncita/pseuds/laratoncita
Summary: I've always been good at math. If I were a man and not some blonde on the Eastside, that would mean something.
Relationships: Sodapop Curtis/Sandy
Kudos: 6





	a long wish to be elsewhere

**Author's Note:**

> this is my answer to a premise i've seen a lot - "what if sandy lied?" i hope you all enjoy! thanks for reading :)
> 
> ps. title from louise glück’s “unpainted door”

I quietly call to you  
and you come and hold my hand and I say  
I cannot see beyond it. I cannot see beyond it.  
(Sharon Olds, "True Love")

* * *

I've always been good at math. If I were a man and not some blonde on the Eastside, I'd use it to win big at poker games way out West. I'd leave Oklahoma without so much as a goodbye—maybe just a kiss for my ma. Sometimes, when it's just me, I'll sit and pretend all the things I want are really possible. In these daydreams I run off to Hollywood and I'm a big star and no one can play me, because I double check the numbers myself. Nothing like Jane Mansfield, and not just because I think it'd about kill my mother to see me topless on a big screen. The good parts might be nice though: the money, the adoration, the bombshell blonde good looks. It helps that I got two of those things already, even if it's equal parts thanks to my folks and Sodapop Curtis.

Soda's the reason I'm here, after all, hunched over a toilet on the first floor of Will Rogers. Up until about fifteen minutes ago I was sitting in the library reading through a history textbook. The nausea seemed like it came straight from the thermos of coffee one of the librarians had opened, not that it really matters. I've been queasy these last few days, but today's the first that it escalated. Now I'm trying to breathe through my nose and do math all at once. And I'm good at it, like I said.

There's no mistake about it. Ten days since I should have bled and here I am in white cotton underwear with my ass nearly on the floor from heaving so hard. Son of a bitch. I can't say I didn't know any better, but I'm still mad about it. We used a rubber every time, I made sure of it, and Soda never even complained. Of course he wouldn't—he and Darry are barely on top of their bills as is, and that's with just the three of them to keep fed and clothed. Besides that, my daddy makes money that he loses every other week, so I wasn't fixing to get caught up in nothing.

I didn't want to be the sophomore who got pregnant by her steady. Except now it seems I'm a junior and it's happening anyway. When I finally stand up I'm wobbly. I keep my head down as I wash my hands, but when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror I'm pleasantly surprised to find myself almost picture perfect. Hair barely out of pace, cheeks tinged pink like good rouge. If I had started crying like I wanted to, it would've been obvious, but somehow I'm keeping it together—at least for now.

Maybe it just hasn't hit me yet. Maybe it's good luck. Then again, I'm hardly lucky to be figuring this out in the middle of third period study hall. It could be worse but it could be a hell of a lot better, too.

By the time I get back to the library we've got all of ten minutes before the bell rings. Sylvia Costello's right where I left her, though, math homework half-started in front of her. We're in the same class, have been since it was seventh grade. Like me, she's good at it. Like me, no one really believes it.

She's got a little beret on, beauty mark drawn on and her dark hair shiny as ever. She's dating some middle class senior boy who's nothing like Dally, who got locked up over the summer and who Sylvia says she's finally done with. _I'll see him in hell_ , she said, when she told me about the new man, who wants to go to one of those fancy Ivy Leagues and takes her out on real dates to places besides the rodeo. I already know the second they let him out—probably for overcrowding, because Lord knows that boy don't know the meaning of _good behavior_ —he'll start spewing lies and half-truths alike about her, but Sylvia's never cared what people say about her.

I'd like to think I'm the same way, but it's one thing to not care if folks think your blouse is a little too low-cut and another to realize you've probably got a baby on your hands (or will, in less than nine months). Whatever I'm feeling (nausea, concern, a vague sense of doom) must show on my face, because when I sit down and she catches sight of me, her smiles fades.

She's not the sentimental type, so all she does is snap her gum and say, "What's wrong with you?"

That kind of honesty is nice to have on hand. I reach out with one hand, say, "Gimme a stick, will you?" and she doesn't ask again, just passes me some mint Trident and waits. After a few thoughtful chews—and boy am I glad that mint apparently won't make me sick—I ask, "You ever been late?"

Her gaze had already slipped from me to her textbook, but before the words are even out her eyes are on me again, painted on eyebrows incredibly high. She likes how Sophia Loren does them so she shaves them off instead of plucking, and while I can't claim to understand how that's any easier, I think it's real funny to see her in the mornings after sleepovers before she's had the chance to draw them back on.

She says, joking but waiting for me to tell the truth, "You tryna tell me somethin', sweetheart?"

I can't offer her the truth yet. I know what the math means, but I don't want to admit it. Especially not in the middle of a school day. I'm lucky I'm as good at lying as I am math. "Heard some rumors flyin' 'round, 'bout some girl a year below us." If we were still in '64 this would only be half a lie. Since it's a year later, news of Donna Holden has been bunked, on account of she stayed her same cheerleader self through all of winter and spring. "Wasn't sure if was true or not. You know half the girls in our year think they're late every month."

"Not everyone's as good at numbers is us," Sylvia says, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. Doesn't matter if they were at each other's throat half the time; when she smiles like this, it's easy to understand why Dally gets so crazy over her.

Sylvia's got a better head on her shoulders than I do. I still let myself pretend, after all, that the future might be a little more exciting than what usually happens to girls like us. Even before twenty minutes ago I knew it was just a little fantasy, but I couldn't help myself. Good girls get married and settle down; they don't chase a dream across the country, and they definitely don't let a boy get his hands on them. Sylvia and I might do the latter, but she's smarter than me in the ways that matter.

What I'm saying is, I can't for the life of me figure out how the rhythm method makes any sense. I think it's because the Costello's are Catholic that she's managed to stay out of that sort of trouble. I ask her, "So that rhythm thing really works, huh?"

She snorts. Closes her book, too, since the bell will be ringing soon enough, and there's no way either of us are getting any more work done. This, at least, is nice and consistent. "Please. My ma woulda had at least six of us, if it wasn't for her countin' her days right."

"Sylvie," I say, and can't help but smile a little, "there's four of you."

"Yeah, and at least three years between each of us," she says, but she's grinning right back. "My ma's the smartest girl I know. After me."

"You tell her that?" The mint gum I've been chewing is starting to lose flavor already. I wonder if I'll be able to stomach lunch.

"'Course not," Sylvia says, "she's a 'I told you so' kinda gal. And if she finds out I'm puttin' out, it'll be straight to Catholic school for me. Surprised I ain't there right now."

"Probably 'cause you told her you wasn't goin' with Dally anymore and forgot to mention you found yourself a new boy right after."

"It's called keepin' my options open, sugar," she says. She flips her hair over her shoulder and then adjusts her beret a minuscule amount. "You mighta found a soulmate with the prettiest Curtis, but some of us gotta find our own slice of heaven and stay sneaky about it."

"Who said soulmate," I say, and can feel my eyes go big with surprise. I don't like the sound of that, no matter that me and Soda have said I love you already and been going out since October. I think I love him like any sixteen year old must love their steady. But that doesn't mean I want to up and get married already, neither, no matter my current suspected circumstances (and I say suspected because I can't even think about that particular p-word right now without feeling a little sick again).

"Oh, please," Sylvia starts, "that boy loves you like you're the last girl left on Earth—"

It's my luck that the bell rings. Sylvia turns her head away from me the slightest bit, and I say, "C'mon, let's see what's for lunch," like what she said hasn't just burned its way into my memory, stomach churning all the while.

* * *

Soda picks me up for date night every Friday. Usually we do dinner and a show, whether it's a movie that neither of us will end up paying any attention to or the football game. Just as often, his buddy Steve and his girl Evie are with us. I like Evie just fine—she's a little louder than I am, but she reminds me of Sylvia that way, and we dig the same music. She's got two little brothers to my one, so we've got enough to talk about besides school when the boys leave us to buy drinks or snacks sometimes. Steve's a touch less friendly, but I think it's a him thing rather than a me thing.

Either way, I don't mind seeing them, and usually I look forward to the four of us driving around town like it could be ours. This week, Friday falls not three days after my third-period realization, which puts me at thirteen days overdue, so to speak. I'm so nervous I can feel myself shake, but when I look in the mirror I'm the same girl I usually am, painted on face included.

My daddy ain't the friendly type, but he's real old-fashioned, and no matter that he spends most of his time losing his paycheck playing poker with worse types he'd never let me out of the house if Soda even thought to just lay on the horn and wait for me to join him outside. Instead, Soda comes up to the front door every time and lays compliments on my mother like he's still got to convince her to let me out of the house. My ma thinks he's nice enough but she tells me to be respectful of myself anytime he comes up in conversation. I probably should have paid better attention to her.

"That's nice," my ma is saying as turn into the living room, and when Soda spots me his whole face lights up. I can't help the butterflies I still get just looking at him—I really did snag the best looking guy on the Eastside, no matter that Sylvia's got a mixed up idea about it. I must be smiling something awful, because soon enough my mother's swatting at me and telling me to have fun and _be careful_ , and for some blissful few minutes I don't even remember to think that it's too late for that.

"You look real pretty," he tells me, and waits to kiss me until we're just past the reach of the porch light. It feels like a secret every time, and he takes my hand in his when we separate. "Evie's here already. You mind sittin' in the back with me?"

"'Course not," I say, because I don't. I've got a fair number of fond memories in that backseat.

The night passes like any other—we get to the game, we get comfortable, and Soda tells me Dally's out of jail and watches my face like I'm going to make a big fuss out of it.

"Soda," I say, half scolding. We're sharing a soft pretzel, the only thing that didn't make my stomach turn at the concession stand, and he reaches out to push some hair back behind my ear. In front of us, Steve and Evie are arguing about the best play to make if the team wants to get anywhere. If our previous dates mean anything, the two of them will probably sneak off for some alone time sooner rather than later. "Just 'cause he says one thing about Sylvia—"

"So she didn't step out on him?" He looks more curious than judging, and I feel my face go hot. I don't like lying to Soda.

"It's a little complicated," I try, and his expression is one of amusement now.

"Honey, how's it complicated?" he says, "Either she did or she didn't."

"He was in the cooler," I say, and must sound annoyed because he grins at me. He likes riling me up, says it's real cute. If I didn't like him so much I'd probably throw his drink in his face, but lucky for him that's not the case. "She says she wrote to him. Said she was tired of waitin'."

"That the same as tellin' someone it's over?"

"Maybe," I say, but let him kiss me while Steve and Evie start cheering at whatever's going on with the game. I'm not much for sports, even if it's a decent spot for dates. I like movies but Soda ain't a fan; I don't think we've ever sat through a movie in full since our second or third date. His kid brother's real into them, though, and we had a nice conversation about it on his birthday. What cut it short was Darry realizing what _What's New Pussycat?_ is about, but Soda managed to save face for all of us.

Afterwards, since we're in the Curtis' truck (no matter that Steve drove us), we head back to Soda's place so Steve can drive Evie home _without putting us out_. Me and Evie catch each other's eyes and can't help but grin at each other, just a little bit. Doesn't matter that the whole night the truth has been weighing heavily on me; I still feel overwhelmed with something I'd like to call love just from being near Soda all night. Evie must feel the exact same way, and once we say our goodbyes Soda drives us back to my place, overshooting by just a block and then turning into a quiet alley.

I look at him with raised eyebrows, say, "Real romantic tonight, huh?" and he laughs.

"I don't want your folks to look out the window and see me kissin' their only daughter," he says, and does exactly that. For several long minutes it's just the two of us together, and when he pulls away I can't help but follow. He strokes my hair, so gentle it makes my breath catch, and says, "How's school goin'?"

"It's school," I say. It's a sore spot, still, no matter that Soda didn't like school even before his parents died. I had met them only two or three times before the accident. Just thinking about it makes me sad, though, so I reach out to cup his face. "You have fun tonight?"

I like asking him questions—if he's having fun, what he's excited to do over the weekend, little things like that. Sometimes I worry no one hardly spends any time thinking about what he wants or needs or just plain deserves. I like to think I do a little bit to fix that.

"Always," he says. He's just leaned in to kiss me again when I feel a sudden wave of nausea, and I can't help but go stiff, hands on his chest keeping him away from me. His tone is confused when he speaks. "Honey? You alright?"

"I'm fine," I say through my teeth. I will it to pass through me but it's no dice, and just as I try saying, "Just peachy," I have to scramble out of the passenger side door. It's an alley, so I don't worry too much about ruining someone's garden, but Lord is it embarrassing to get sick in front of someone you like so much. It's one thing to crawl into bed with someone and another to have them crawl out of their own seat and rub your back while you heave, helpless, trying not to cry.

By the time I'm finished I've got tears at the corner of my eyes, and Soda's making soothing noises like I'm a spooked filly. Once night falls it gets cold, autumn a promise in the air, and so he drapes his flannel over me while I try to pull myself together. I thought I might be able to put this off a little while—just while I figured out what we could feasibly do—but surely this is a sign I shouldn't.

"Hey now," he says, when my breath hitches, "you're alright. D'you need to stay out here a little while longer, or d'you wanna sit down?"

"I'm fine," I say, which is a clear lie, but all Soda does is nod. I can't see him real well in this light. I'm sure I'm imagining the outline of his features rather than seeing him, but it's a face I know almost as well as my own at this point, so I can't help it. "Let's sit in the car. I'm sorry."

"For what?" He opens the door for me; I don't even remember shutting it behind me in my mad dash to save myself some embarrassment. Maybe I shouldn't feel this way. My ma takes care of all of us when we're sick, and she's fondly told the story of when she told my daddy she was having me, my father holding her hair back for her while she gagged between sentences. This was before he got so bad with money that my mother had to start working, too, and it's one of the few things about him that still make her smile.

I don't know much about what the future holds for me anymore, but I know deep down that I don't want anything like the life my parents are sharing right now, and if the thought of that ain't enough to give me a spine of steel than nothing will be.

"For bein' sick," I say, and my voice cracks with embarrassment. Soda just looks concerned, even in this low light.

"That ain't your fault," he says, "do you want me to take you home—"

"No," I interrupt, and take a deep breath. I touch my face, wonder if my makeup has smudged. "Not yet."

"Are you sure?"

"I need to tell you somethin'," I say, and when I look at him I see him straighten up. I wish I could see him better, but we're still in this damned alley. He's the type to show all his emotions on his face, no matter that he's a fighter at heart like all his friends. Steve, Dally, even Two-Bit Mathews—they're all Eastsiders at heart in a way that's hard to miss. It's in the way they walk and talk and look at you, no matter that Soda's always looked at me with something softer, something with more _feeling_.

It's all there on his face right now, even if I might be half-imagining it. He says, "What's wrong?" and I wonder what he thinks I'm going to say.

I take a deep breath, wishing I asked for gum. He seems to read my mind, though, and offers me a stick. It buys me a little bit of time to figure out what I want to say, but it doesn't really help. There's no nice way to say it so I just do: "I think I'm pregnant."

I try to make sense of his expression best as I can in these shadows. It's odd, to see him like this. Quiet like he never is, eyes wide, mouth parted around a question. I wait for him to ask.

He says, "Are you sure?"

I hunch my shoulders forward, like I could hide in plain sight. His flannel smells like him, and I press my nose to my shoulder for a brief moment, his cologne familiar and comforting. "I'm late. Two weeks tomorrow."

"Is that long enough…"

"Yeah," I say, and hope he can tell how serious I am just by looking at me, "I haven't told anyone. I don't know what my folks'll have me do."

"We can get married."

My back straightens without thought. His expression doesn't change between blinks, and it takes me longer than I like to make sense of the words he's just said. He looks so serious, but I want him to take it back.

I say, "What?" and all he does is repeat it. My voice is high, incredulous, when I speak next, "We're sixteen."

"My birthday's comin' up," he says, like a whole year will make a difference, or like mine wasn't just this past May. His eyes are so dark and serious. I can hardly recognize him. "I'm workin' already, we could save up—"

"And what about your brothers?" I don't know if I should have expected different, or if I should have seen this coming. I don't think so, though. He lives for his brothers, especially Ponyboy. Sixteen and orphaned is a lot different than the thirteen years that the youngest of them had when the accident happened. I don't hold it against him at all, that he loves his kid brother like that. I may not be as close to mine but I know how it is, too, to have to step up when it wasn't your job in the first place. Me and my ma keep the house running the same way Soda and Darry keep theirs. There's no way Darry would manage without Soda, no matter that no one would ever admit it.

"Pony's doin' better," Soda says, but I know that's not true, either. He's told me about the nightmares, the tension between him and Darry. I can't blame Darry for that, either, or even Ponyboy. The situation they've been handed is indescribable. I can't say I would've done the same in Darry's position. "By the time the baby's born—"

"We're kids," I say instead. My voice is soft, almost accusing. His eyes are too wide, too dark.

"I wanna marry you," he says, and my breath catches. "A baby don't change that."

I can't speak. I watch his grip tighten over the steering wheel and think about what my mother will say. An image of the future flashes before my eyes—freshly seventeen and a baby in my arms, Soda working a dead-end job and neither of us with any kind of diploma. I never figured myself one for college but at the very least I thought I'd get through my last two years of high school. Embarrassment burns through me.

When it's clear I won't be speaking any time soon, he says, voice tender, "Will you think about it?"

It's so hard to say no to him—it's a Soda thing. Who would want to break this boy's heart? I find myself hesitating. "Soda…"

"C'mon," he says. He's begging, and I feel sick all over again. I can't believe he's being serious. "We can do it, you and me. I love you."

"I love you, too, but…" I don't know what to say. "Soda, this ain't a puppy we can give away if it's too hard. It's a whole person."

"It's just a baby," he insists, "I remember when they brought Pony home, we can do it."

I shake my head, say, "I ain't even tell my ma yet. Maybe I'm wrong."

"No, you're not," he says. He cups my face, and I can't help but lean into it. "You're real good at math, always have been. Shoulda asked you to tutor me, back in the spring." When I say nothing he just _looks_ at me and for a moment it's like just his gaze will trap me here forever. He says, "Please. Think about it."

I don't mean it when I say, "Okay," but he looks a little comforted by it, so I can't help but feel a little bit of relief, too, even if I know my answer won't be changing.

* * *

If I think that'll earn me a few days to figure out what to do—how to break the news to my mother, what to say to Soda about his impromptu proposal—then I'm sorely mistaken. Soda calls me in the morning, earlier than he usually does on his days off, and for a moment I don't recognize his voice. He sounds exhausted and terrified, and it's this that makes me wake up more fully. It's closer to eight than nine, and I like to sleep in on weekends, but especially after a night of tossing and turning, too overwhelmed by the weight of the decisions I need to make in the coming days and weeks to get some rest.

I say his name and it makes him pause. Maybe he can sense my worry; when he speaks next he's at least trying to sound normal.

"Hi, honey," he says, and I feel myself relax just at the pet-name, "can I come see you?"

I check the clock, say, "It's so early. What's goin' on?"

"I just want to see you," he says, but his voice is hollow. "Can we talk?"

"Soda?" He stays quiet. "Is this about what I told you?" I'm standing in the living room. My ma is in the kitchen drinking coffee and eating sliced apples, her go-to breakfast. My father's still asleep, on account of he comes in real late on the weekends, and so is my brother—at thirteen he's already tending towards late nights and later afternoons. I'm still in my pajamas, face unwashed. My ma didn't seem pleased to wake me up for this phone call, but maybe she could hear the panic in Soda's voice, too.

For a moment I worry I said it too softly for him to hear; I don't want to risk my mother overhearing. Finally he says, "No. Not really. I'll explain when I get there, savvy? I'll see you soon."

He hangs up before I can say anything, and I stand there for a long moment. I'm not totally awake, if I'm being honest, which is why I walk into the kitchen instead of getting ready.

My mother is suspicious. "You just saw him yesterday," she says, "why's he callin' so early on a Saturday?"

"I don't know," I say, and I'm happy that it's the truth. I want to tell her what's happening with _us_ but I'm scared. She married my daddy straight out of high school and then waited for him to get back from the Pacific. He wasn't there that long, but it took them a little while to have children, and then when he learned to gamble things never really looked up.

I wish I knew what she'd say when she finds out I'm in trouble like this. I don't know what I can do, how much it would cost to get it taken care of or if I'll have to get married even if the thought makes my head spin.

I get a glass a water before sitting down across from her. It settles my stomach, just a little and I must look puzzled, because instead of grilling me like I'm expecting she puts down a half-eaten apple slice. "He didn't say?"

"No," I answer. I should get up and change but instead I reach for the still-folded newspaper, and very quickly I figure out why Soda's in such a rush to see me.

There are plenty of kids on the Eastside, and there's plenty of conflict with Socs. But there are only a few boys with scars on their faces like Johnny Cade, and the description of those boys in the paper isn't hard to connect to real life when I've spent as much time with Soda as I have.

I say, "I've gotta get dressed," and my voice is shaking only a little bit. My ma looks at me, concerned, but I say nothing, just fold the paper up again and disappear into my room.

I don't want to risk Soda speaking to my mother, so I wait by the window once I'm dressed and fresh-faced. My hair is loose, soft waves from having braided it before bed, and I've got just a bit of lipstick on in my favorite shade of pink. I wait, arms crossed over the sweater I chose, and as soon as I catch sight of his car I'm slipping out of the front door before my mother can stop me.

I don't even let him get out of the car to open the door for me, just climb in as soon as he's come to a full stop. I say his name and he just blinks at me.

"You saw the paper," he says, and I nod. He exhales through his nose, harsh. I want to reach out to comfort him but I can't. "Shit."

Johnny's old enough to be tried as an adult, if they really want, but Ponyboy is only fourteen—there aren't any other young kids they hang out with, after all, and there's no way the suspects described are anyone else. Maybe if it had just been one of them, but where Johnny goes Ponyboy follows.

We stay sitting in front of the house. Something tells me we won't be driving off anywhere, and it rubs me the wrong way. There's no privacy here; no doubt my ma's watching us from the window, same as any neighbor who happened to catch sight of Soda driving up.

"Are they hidin'?" I ask.

He says, voice rough, "I don't know."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't know." I almost don't recognize him when we look at each other. "Last night, Darry…he fucked up."

I reach out for him finally, touch his arm. He's got that same flannel on, warm to the touch. "What happened?"

He swallows. "Pony came home late, got into it with Darry. I tried…I hate when they fight. You know how it is." I nod. I hate it, too. Soda doesn't deserve to have to worry about this (even if, somewhere in the back of my mind, I know that none of them deserve it), but he does it anyway, because he's a good brother and a good person. "But then…Darry…he…"

Soda stops. His jaw is clenched, and I can't make sense of what he's trying to tell me.

"He hit him. Hit Pony," Soda says, and I inhale sharply. One hand covers my mouth unthinkingly, and Soda gives me a wry grin. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. I about lost it myself. Yelled at him 'til I couldn't talk no more." He goes quiet. Loosens his grip on the steering wheel, instead, while he stares at his hands. "I shouldn'ta done that. I shoulda just gone after Pony—I coulda got him back home soon enough. Then none of this would have happened."

"Soda," I say, but he just shakes his head.

I don't want to believe it—Darry's big across the shoulders and tall, too, like the model football star he was when he was still at Will Rogers. He's fought in rumbles before, sure, like all the boys on this side of town, but he never seemed like the type to turn violent for no reason. For a while it seemed like he'd get out of here, nothing like the boys who run farther East in Brumly or even the Shepard gang, small though they may be. And Pony's so young, smaller than the boys in his grade since he's a year ahead. I see him in the hallways sometimes and always say hello. I don't want to think about him and Darry arguing, let alone Darry losing his temper.

"We tried lookin' for him," Soda continues, "I called Steve and Two-Bit, but of course he was blasted. Steve and me drove around goin' crazy with it, but we couldn't find him. And then…" He doesn't continue, and he doesn't have to. A dead body in the park would catch anyone's attention, even on the worst sides of town, of which there are many. "I don't know what to do."

He lets me take his hand. I say, "I'm sorry," because there's nothing else to say.

We remain silent together for a minute or two, and then he says, lifting his head, "Did you think about it?"

I'm still thinking about what it means, that some Soc is dead and Ponyboy and Johnny are gone, so I'm caught off-guard. "Think about what?"

"What I said last night," he says. His eyes are wide and brown and beautiful in the morning light. My stomach turns to stone.

"Soda," I say, "it's ain't hardly been a day…"

"Have you told your parents?" When I stay silent he shakes his head. He looks desperate, almost like he did last night when I told him. "So tell them. Tell them that we're havin' a baby, and we're gonna get married, and we'll figure out the rest. I'm gonna take care of you."

"I can't just say that," I start, but he stops me from continuing, pulling an old ring box out. I know what he's going to do before he does it. I can't keep my eyes away from Mrs. Curtis' old engagement ring—a simple band with a ruby stone, oblong and brilliant in the sun. I remember how it looked when she wore it, no matter that I only met her a few times. My mother's is a completely different shape, with just a small diamond in a squared center. The only women I saw with real diamonds were the Socy types, but that didn't stop me from imagining a rock sitting on my finger prettily one day.

Not like this, though. I can't even say that Soda was in those daydreams, after all. Everything just seemed so…fantastical, when I let myself think about it. The only constant was ever me. I don't think that's something that should be held against me.

Soda says, "Alexandra," and no one uses my full name, nor do I want to hear it like this today, "will you marry me?"

I don't want to look at him, but I do. I look at him and I see nearly a year's worth of knowing. Knowing each other and learning more and, soon enough, loving each other as best as we could. But _best we could_ doesn't mean best we'll ever have, does it?

I'm sixteen and a junior and won't be able to finish out the year, now. I'll have to leave after the semester ends at the latest, and then I'll have nothing. If I marry Soda I'll have this ring and the Curtis name around my throat and a baby that won't know anything better.

This is the only boy I've ever loved but I know, fiercely and suddenly, that he's not the person I'm going to spend my life with. He can't be, because I don't want this baby, especially not if it's going to turn us into any other couple surviving by their teeth like so many of the people we know. Maybe it doesn't mean anything, because chances are I'll have to have this baby anyway, but if I don't marry him then I can make sure it gets to a good family, at least. I can finish school a little late and then figure out the rest later.

I have to say no, but I have to say no and make sure he can't argue about it, because it's hard to say no to Sodapop Curtis no matter who you are. So I lie. I lie and he believes me, like he's any other person and not the one who knows me best.

"It ain't yours," I say. It's like I'm hearing a stranger speak, the sound of those words in my own voice enough to make me sick.

Soda's watching me with big, pleading eyes, but I can see the exact moment he goes from _my_ Soda, the boy I've said I love you to a hundred times, to a full-fledged Curtis, every muscle going tight like he's gearing up for a fight. Realizing that I'm the fight hurts.

Somehow I find it in me to say, "Soda, I'm _sorry_ —"

"So you ain't sayin' yes," he says. His voice is so carefully neutral it strikes me as foreign. I stare at him. Terrified, suddenly, of what this really means for us. For me. "It's someone else's, and you're gonna take care of it yourself—"

"You'd take care of it," I say, in complete disbelief.

"I love you," he says, and it's desperate. "We can make things right—"

"No," I say, and my voice goes high when he tries to argue, "no, we can't, and I'm not marryin' you, and I—no." I say it twice more, feeling frantic. I reach for the door, eyes still on that ruby ring like it'll kill me if I look away. I never dreamt of inheriting of it, never thought Soda would show up on a Saturday morning asking me to marry him when his kid brother's on the lam. I can feel him watching me but I can't look him in the eye. He might see the truth there. I open the door and say, "You oughta leave."

He says, "Sandy," reaching for me, but I slam the door shut and then rush up the porch steps. He doesn't leave right away and I watch him from the same window where I waited. He puts his head in his hands and then, after several long minutes that stretch into forever, he leaves again, and I let the curtain fall to keep from accidentally catching his eye as he does.

My father's behind me when I turn, and I can't help but jump. Behind him, my mother hovers in the doorway. "What's that boy doin' over here so early?"

My world's as good as ended already, so I say, "I'm pregnant," and watch how the announcement makes both my parents' faces twist.

"What," my daddy says, and there's fury in his voice. My mother rushes forward to take ahold of my arms. Like she'll shake the truth from me, or maybe protect me, too.

I look away from him and focus on her—we have the same eyes, though I get the hair from my father. I wonder what sort of sorry sight I make. "I'm pregnant. Two weeks late."

"Sandy," she says. Like it hurts her.

"Where is he," my father says, looking towards the door. He has bags under his eyes, stubble that needs to be shaved. Maybe he could take Soda, but why would he, when I'm the one who said no? "Sonuvabitch. Where is he. He ain't even offer to make it right?"

My mother's eyes are beautiful. I like to think I look more like her than I do my father, but it's probably an even split. What matters most is that I'm better at not showing every emotion on my face like they are. I always thought I'd make a good actress.

"Did you tell him?" my mother asks. She sounds kinder than I expected. "He's from a good family, those Curtises, he didn't say—"

"No," I say, and the lie is lighter than smoke. They both watch me as they would an animal trying to escape a hunt, and I wonder at how many hearts I'll break today, or tomorrow, or for the rest of my life. "He didn't wanna marry me, neither."


End file.
